l nature with her glance.
Her virgin train sweeps down the glade,
Kissing the cavern's mouth of shade;
She smiles upon the singing brook,
With sparkles filling every nook
That lurks about its dimpled face,
Giving its deepest shadows grace,
And breathing on its grassy mane
A gloss it ne'er can hope to gain
Beneath the sun's more kingly ray.
Weirdly the purling waters play
In her embrace; then break away
To vanish under bending boughs,
But giving voice to gurgling vows

[Illustration: FOUNTAIN CAVE.]

Of future tryst, of love again
Where meet the river banks and glen.
The moonlight vaults beyond the trees
To gain the river side, and sees
A dusky maiden sitting there,
Who twines her lovely raven hair,
And frequent lifts her melting eyes
To where the flashing ripple flies
Across the bosom of that glass
Where dancing stars nocturnal pass.
A princess of the wildwood she,
And graceful as the deer that flee
Till stricken by the light-winged shaft
So deadly from the hunter's craft.
The river sings beneath her feet;
It finds an echo in the sweet
And tender thought that throbs behind
The starry curtains of her mind.
And when the thrills that sweep her heart
Now from her tongue in music start,
The wavelets beating on the strand,
The murmuring leaves by zephyrs fanned,
The minor rhythms that wake the bowers
Of this fair glen when evening lowers,
And warbling birds' melodious throng,
All mingle with her low love song.
Her voice is all that's wild and sweet,
And slow must be that warrior's feet
Who would not speed with all his heart
To see her red lips meet and part.
Love moves her with his golden sway--
A young and stalwart Chippewa
Has gained her heart, and kindred ties
And tribal feuds her love defies.
What cares she that her people hate
And his give back without abate?
What cares she that he is not Sioux?
If he but keep his promise true!
She sings an old song, passion-laden
By many a dead Dahkota maiden:

_O where is my lodge--my love?
O where is the lord of my breast?
Reveal me, Great Spirit above,
The arms where my passion may rest!

Brave warriors are thick as the leaves
That follow the wind in the fall;
Each maiden may think she receives
The smile of the noblest of all;

But I know a chief who can slay
The panther and bear with his hand,--
As warm and as proud as the day,
And braver than all in his band.

In his sinewy arms I shall rest,
And hear his voice call me "sweet dove!